


Night In

by Anonymous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (which stands for NoPorn-WithoutPlot), Established Relationship, F/F, NPWP, Quite a bad little tale, Sibling Incest, that's what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 16:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15441321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sansa is going out. Arya decides to convince her not to . . . and succeeds after (not) much convincing.





	Night In

**Author's Note:**

> I recommend no one read this story, as it's quite plain. I'll add that I stored it in my hard-drive under the name "Brainstorm D" — that just shows you. Lastly, I'll point out that I'm quite Mexican and so probably failed at trying to make this story sound British. I apologize in advance.

The afternoon that could be seen through the window was a grim one. It was windy, and Sansa worried rain would start soon. Not like it would stop her from going out, but she was rather famous amid her friends for cancelling whenever it rained. Her reason for that was not precisely that she didn't like getting wet.

Her reason for that, instead, had just walked into the room.

"Ugh," Arya said; she had stopped to stare at Sansa on her way in; "you always look so pretty. . . ."

Sansa, who was sitting at her vanity, blushed at her reflection.

"I'm sorry," she answered. Arya's tone had been of slight disapproval so Sansa, having already expected it, mocked it. "I don't do it to annoy you."

"Well, it feels as though you did," Arya said, slumping back on the bed. "Are we going, then?"

"I've told you already, Arya," Sansa sighed. "I'm going out with Margaery and the others."

Arya rolled to her side. "Please? We'll go together."

"I'm not going to one of your parties again, okay? The last time I did —"

"You had fun and you can't deny it," Arya interjected.

Sansa blushed, remembering. She could hear her sister's smirk even if she didn't see it. "Alright, maybe I did," she admitted heatedly, "but it wasn't because of the party. . . . And anyway, we're not doing _that_ again. All your friends know me."

"Well, if that's the problem, you don't have to worry. Everybody's going to Mycah's thing, not where I want to take you — no one will know us there. If anyone asks, we'll just introduce ourselves as . . ." She trailed off suggestively.

"What," Sansa started, scandalized, "girlfriends?"

". . . Well," Arya started hesitantly; she knew Sansa's thoughts on the matter; "it's not like we look much alike."

Suddenly exasperated, Sansa put down her fisted hand hard on the surface of the vanity, a yet-to-be-used lipstick held tight inside.

"I'm not having this conversation again, Arya," she said firmly, glaring at her sister, her tone resembling their mother's (albeit less confidently). Then, without really thinking, she added, "And besides, I would rather stay here than go to some party full of kids if for some reason I ended up not going with Margaery."

Sansa looked back at her reflection . . . realized what she'd just said . . . and winced, her eyes closing resignedly. She heard Arya sit up on the bed.

"That's that, then," her sister said, kicking her shoes off her feet. "We'll just stay here."

"No," Sansa grumbled. She was more angry at herself than at her sister, whose behaviour simply amused her because of its predictability. "I'm going out."

There was a silent beat, during which Sansa didn't continue fixing her make-up as she was supposed to be doing.

"It's starting to rain," Arya observed. Raindrops had started tapping faintly on the window.

Taking a deep breath, as if to remind herself of her resolve, Sansa prepared to apply her lipstick. "I'm still going."

"Oh, please don't."

Knowing that this suddenly was not about her going out, Sansa turned to look at her sister, eyebrow raised in amusement. "You're still against this." It wasn't a question.

"You know I hate it when you do that."

"Even when I can't understand it."

Arya shot towards Sansa, preventing her sister from painting her lips by stopping the hand that had been approaching her face in mid-air.

"Don't spoil your beautiful face like that, please."

"It's just a bit of it," Sansa replied, still amused. "It's not like it'll make my lips fall off or anything."

"Yeah." Arya had not yet let go of her hand. "But it's like . . . I don't know, morally wrong? — I mean it," she added when Sansa laughed at her, "it's not like you need to enhance anything, why even do that?"

Sansa turned to stare at her sister, and they shared another moment of silence.

"Alright," Sansa yielded. "I won't do this in your presence, then."

She tore her hand from Arya's grasp and threw the unused lipstick into her purse. Arya sat back on the bed. She was now so close, though, that when Sansa stood up from her seat her bare knee rubbed against Arya's own denim-clad one.

"How do I look?" asked Sansa, striking a pose.

Arya fell back so that her upper-body was only being supported by her elbows, placed on the mattress. "Awful," she answered. "You shouldn't go anywhere looking like that."

Sansa was flattered by the contradiction she found between her sister's appreciative stare and her disapproving tone.

Arya's head followed Sansa as she walked to stand in front of her full-length mirror. "Don't go," she insisted. "Stay here with me, you'll probably have more fun — you don't even drink, Sansa."

"Me and Margaery haven't met outside school for like three weeks, Arya, and I haven't seen Dany in months. I can't cancel again, not tonight."

Probably noticing that her efforts were gradually wearing down Sansa's resistance, Arya persisted.

"Should I seriously try to convince you, dear sister?"

Sansa glared at her through the mirror. "If you start undressing like that other day, I'll call Mum."

Smirking malevolently, Arya undid a button of her button-up shirt, revealing the convergence of her collarbone and sternum. "Go on."

Suddenly stiff, Sansa turned. "She's not here?"

Another button was undone.

Sansa's resolve was finally crumbling. "Y-you should've, y'know, said so earlier. . . . If you had, we could've — we . . ."

With a low _Pop!_ another button flew open.

Sansa took a timid step towards where her sister sat. It seemed she wasn't very good at controlling her impulses.

One more _Pop!_ and Sansa could see clearly that Arya wasn't wearing anything underneath her shirt.

She blinked furiously, trying hard to avert her eyes . . . and failing.

She took another small step.

Arya chuckled, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "Do you really _want_ to go?"

"I. . . ."

Sansa couldn't think. She suddenly wished the splitter-splatter hitting the window would stop, or at least lower its volume. It prevented her from remembering why it was so important that she left. Margaery had very quickly become irrelevant to Sansa.

Appealing to what must have been its last resource, Sansa's mind provided her with flashes of her last week, all of them very specifically bringing back how much she had been anticipating tonight's get-together with her friends. Margaery had found a party that promised to be big enough that they would have privacy even amid the huge crowd. According to her, so few people would know them that they would be alone all night unless they wanted to bring someone into their group. Dany had come visiting from overseas and had repeatedly emphasized how crazy this night would get.

Admittedly, though, Sansa had been less enthusiastic about the night itself than about her old friend's visit. After all, Arya had not been lying when she said Sansa didn't drink. Furthermore, Sansa had never been very fond of accompanying drunk people in their drunkenness either (and even less so considering her own soberness), seeing as she rarely found commonplace things as funny as drunk people did.

Sansa was finding it harder and harder to remember why she wanted to go in the first place. And besides, Arya was right _there_ on her bed, watching her expectantly, her eyes burning with that thing Sansa knew so well.

The exposed skin of her chest, an expanse of it that hardly swelled at all even as it approached the nipples that Sansa could place perfectly regardless of that fact the fabric of the shirt didn't give them away in the least; the nonchalance with which Arya's finger traced the beginning of her stomach, teasing with the inevitable unclasping of one more button; the fire that burned in her sister's dilated pupils; and the familiarity of the crooked smirk that stretched those lips . . . those lips whose exact shape, texture, and even temperature Sansa's mind could easily recreate . . . those lips whose ghost Sansa could feel running all over her body even as they stretched even wider right in front of her, only a couple of yards away . . .

It was all just too much. And Sansa was suddenly conscious of how bad she _wanted_ to not go to her friends tonight; of how bad she wanted, instead, to stay here and let Arya do whatever those eyes were promising.

Barely on purpose, she took another step. She was now quite close to the bed.

They were long past the stage where either of them would use as a detractor the wrongness of their activities (and, thinking back on it, Sansa had always wondered whether her sister had ever been on that stage at all). A testament to this was the casualty with which Arya pushed herself upwards again before taking Sansa round the waist and burying her face between her sister's breasts.

While Sansa's dress was rather conservative in its length (it reached roughly the height of her knees), it took a rather modern approach (Margaery's words, not hers) in terms of cleavage, for it exposed as much of it as Sansa felt comfortable showing. Truth be told, it wasn't that much either, but, ever since she bought it, Sansa had realized it was enough to drive Arya wild whenever she used it.

Added to that was the fact that Sansa's bosom had always been her best (or at least most noticeable) asset, and Arya's personal favourite. Countless had been the times when their sessions began simply like this, with Arya's face buried in there.

Sansa stifled a giggle when Arya tightened her grip on her waist, forcing her to take one last awkward step towards the bed. "Oh, Arya," she giggled, placing her hands idly on Arya's shoulders, "you're such a _boy_ sometimes."

She could feel her sister's inner-thighs rub against the outside of her knees . . . her sister's smooth shins envelope her own lovingly . . . her sister's warm cheeks rub softly against the inside of her breasts (the daring cleavage had been unceremoniously pushed down) . . . her sister's hot, steady breathing caress her sternum.

Probably sensing that Sansa's intention to leave was not a problem anymore, Arya looked up at her. "Well?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

Sansa managed to avert her eyes this time. "Well, what?" she said huskily, and hating herself for her obvious give-away.

"What'll it be?" said Arya, making it sound as though they were at a park and she were just asking her sister what kind of ice-cream she wanted.

Sansa blinked distractedly at her mattress, still trying not to look at her sister directly lest she revealed just how easily she had been convinced of staying.

"Please, Arya," she whined, ultimately giving up. "You already know what'll it be."

"Truly."

Sansa frowned one last time at her sister's predatory smirk . . . before leaning down to erase it with a kiss.

 

*******

 

"I'm sorry," Arya began, looking up from Sansa's partially-covered lap, "but I don't think you'll be able to wear this thing in a while."

Still basking in her afterglow, all Sansa managed was a weak "What?"

"Your dress," her sister explained.

Sansa sat up suddenly, her afterglow forgotten. "What've you done to it Arya? I swear if you ripped it —"

"I meant because of your chest, Sansa!" Arya interjected, pointing at it. Then she rolled off the bed, laughing.

"What — ?" Sansa stared down at herself, wondering what her sister meant . . . then she noticed that, amid the flush that reddened her chest (surely a result of their passion), there were four intensely-coloured marks (definitely a result of Arya's passion) adorning precisely the area that was exposed by the cleavage of the dress that she was still wearing.

Sansa blushed furiously, but felt relieved. She turned her head to glare at her sister and frowned once she saw what her sister was up to.

"What are you doing?"

Arya turned to her, her shirt hanging from one shoulder, halfway off. Sansa felt the stare both of her sister's eyes and of her sister's right breast, which was exposed.

"Um — getting undressed?"

Arya bit her lip, probably anticipating a new explosion from her sister. Noticing her hesitance, Sansa smiled. So dramatic must be she to gain such a reaction from the girl with whom she had decided to spend the night, Sansa thought. She stood up, pulled the dress off her body, and went to Arya, her hips swishing seductively.

However, her sister stopped her. "Wait, did you call your friends already?"

That stopped Sansa on her tracks. "Oh, you're right!"

Arya laughed again as she slumped back on the bed once more, topless now and about to start taking her pants off. "It took us so long to start this because of them, and now you totally forgot them." She threw her pants to the corner and watched as her sister rummaged inside her purse, looking for her phone. "Hurry," she urged her, "or I'll get cold."

"Yeah, right," Sansa answered distractedly, "as if you ever got cold."

"Hey . . . are you sure you don't want to go?"

Sansa frowned at her. "Now you suddenly want me to go? I thought this whole thing began because you —"

"It's not that." Arya rolled onto her belly, her feet flopping around behind her, to look at her sister. "I just worry you won't get to see Dany." Her voice got somewhat more serious. "It's been a while since her last visit, hasn't it?"

Noting that her concern was sincere, Sansa reassured her sister: "It's okay. We're going out tomorrow as well, anyway. I can wait."

"Won't she be mad?"

Sansa shrugged as her fingers tapped away at her phone, writing a short message (which included some lazy excuse Sansa didn't put much thought into). "I expect Margaery will." Done texting, Sansa looked at her sister. "But you were right, I wasn't going to have much fun with them."

Arya nodded. "Yeah, I'm much more fun."

Again moving to the bed, Sansa agreed, "That was never in question. You always give me a good time."

She was pulled down and then turned over, so that a second later Arya's face loomed above hers. Sansa saw her own combination of lust and love reflected in the set of eyes that looked down at her.

"Let me start giving it to you, then."

 

*******

 

"Where is everyone, anyway?" asked Sansa.

"I'm not really sure. Dad's working, obviously; I think Rickon and Mum went to some birthday party — isn't that _my_ T-shirt, by the way?"

Sansa looked down at what she had just pulled over herself. It was a plain, dark-blue one. "Um — I suppose so."

"And you _know_ it?" Arya sounded indignant. "C'mon, give me — I love that one — been looking all over — turns out you have it."

Sansa chuckled, not even beginning to pull it off. She took the tank top she had been using as pyjamas and threw it at Arya. "Just wear that."

"Oh, no, no!" Arya exclaimed. "Seriously, how come it doesn't worry you that Mum will notice? It's not even that special."

Sansa jumped to the side to escape from Arya's attempts at catching her. "Stop that, I wanna wear it."

"Why?" Arya again sat on the bed after failing in following her sister over it.

Sansa hid her blush behind the hem of the famous piece of clothing, which she had brought to her face, exposing her midriff. "It's warm," she fake-whined, and, giving it a deep sniff, added, "and it smells like you."

"Oh." Arya was moved. "That's so nice . . . slightly pathetic, but nice."

Sansa wasn't offended; she knew her little sister. "Here." She was offering once more her own old tank top . . . which Arya took with a huff.

"Fine," grumbled she.

Re-dressing was rarely a quiet affair between the two of them. A reason for that may have been that from the very beginning they had been trying their hardest to keep things as casual and comfortable as possible. That was also the reason they had worked in improving their relationship outside their relationship—that is, their relationship as seen from the eyes of their family—lest it would be weird if they suddenly started spending as much time together as they did.

"Anyway," Arya continued as she picked up some shorts that were lying on the floor. "Mum and Rickon are celebrating some eleven-year-old —"

"Is it me," Sansa interrupted, "or does it feel like we really should tell Mum Rickon's old enough to go on his own to those things?"

Arya shrugged indifferently. "Well, I'm not complaining . . . and neither should you," she added suggestively.

Now on the bed, Sansa blushed, nodding in agreement. "I think Mum's finally decided to make new friends," she said, lying back to stare at the ceiling. "And anyway, now that we're old, the parents of Rickon's friends may be her only hope. . . . Something wrong?"

She had noticed the way Arya was looking down at herself. "Don't you think this is rather . . . scarce?"

"Not at all," Sansa immediately answered—though the way in which her eyes were glued to her sister's legs made her statement come off as a lie.

"Right, and _I'm_ the boy," Arya huffed. She pinched her nipples absently (for they were rather evident in the too-large tank top she wore). "That's a lot of tit," she pointed out.

Sansa laughed shakily. "How can you say that? That's . . ." Here eyes now roamed her sister's chest, and it occurred to her that if she got Arya to bend over she would get a nice glimpse of it. "That's just an acceptable amount of side-boob," she finished half-heartedly.

Arya chuckled. "No, it is a lot, but do you think Mum will complain?"

"It's just us girls, after all."

"Okay, then," Arya concluded, slumping back at Sansa side. "As for Jon," she said as she covered one of her nipples (it had become casually free with the impact of her fall), "he went out with Robb — said he was going to stay there."

"Ygritte?"

"I suppose. . . . I know nothing about Bran."

"One of his friends came to pick him up earlier. I wanna believe they were just joking about the wheelchair races."

Arya laughed. "You shouldn't worry, either way. It shouldn't matter if someone arrives — we're decent now."

"Hardly," said Sansa. "Isn't it ironic you're usually the more discreet one?"

"I could put on — you know — _more_ fabric if you want."

"Oh, no, I'm not complaining. And I'm not worried either."

They exchanged a silent smile.

"What time is it?"

Arya told her. "You want me to go?"

"Go?" Sansa asked with a cynic laugh. "I wanna _go_ again."

"Oh," Arya blinked at her sudden forwardness. She smirked. "Alright, then."

 

*******

They had "gone" some other three times by the time their father arrived. They were sitting in front of each other on the bed, talking, when he knocked.

"Come in," Sansa called.

"Hullo, Dad," Arya greeted.

"Good night, girls." He frowned at Sansa. "Weren't you going out?"

Sansa gave another one of her poorly-conceived excuses, finishing it with a very predictable "Besides, it was raining".

Their father nodded absently. "And where is everyone?"

They told him.

"I think there's food in the kitchen if you want some," Arya added at the end. "Would you like us to eat with you?"

He shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm probably already interrupting your little sleepover as it is — not that I mind it," he added when he saw the pessimist expectation in their eyes. "I mean, I'm glad at least some of my children still sleep in this house from time to time."

The girls laughed.

"I'll leave you to it, then."

"You see?" Sansa said after he left. "He didn't even notice your barely-there pyjamas." The tank top in particular had been a topic of discussion during the last half-hour.

"Thankfully," Arya remarked. "This is already weird enough sometimes," she waved a hand between them. "But he doesn't notice things, he's tired — Mum will be something else."

"Just stop," Sansa said, before leaning into her sister and giving her lips a small kiss. "Good thing is, Dad gave me an idea."

"Sleepover," Arya chuckled. It wasn't a question.

Sansa stretched her arms above her head triumphantly. "Sleepover!"


End file.
